Angels from the Ashes
by Eilean Donan
Summary: A former SS officer is cursed to remain on the earth until he balances out his own bad karma. Not least must he learn to love, and that includes himself, and life. But the one who finds him has her own demons to lay.......
1. Chapter 1

**Holland, 2006**

Rain ran in torrents down the pane, the view of the dead grey gardens blurred and distorted by the droplets. Marcus rested his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes. Another winter, another failed year. Beside him, taking up most of the space on the windowsill, was his journal, the page he'd turned to still blank. He'd been writing in it for many years, on and off, each month's entry the same.

_Alone, still. No sign of any life this side of my prison walls. I think even the birds have left me. I found a rose, but not before it had been crushed under my boot._

And now it felt as if the sun had gone too. Winter was always the worst time. He spread his left hand, palm up, trying to flex the fingers that refused to respond to his will. Two had fused together, testimony to the last desperate fight, though he'd leapt into action too late. His thumb had been broken and had healed crooked, giving that hand the appearance of a claw, puckered, scarred, twisted. He never dared to look into a mirror anymore. But he felt alongside his jaw and dug angrily at the scarred skin where fire had burned him.

Inside, it consumed him.

* * *

Carrie carted in the last of her boxes and dumped them on the polished wood floor of her new loft apartment with a loud but happy sigh. Her boyfriend, Shane, came up behind her, his hands wrapped around a large fluffy bear.

"That's it, I think," she smiled, "just got to unpack now, but that can wait until tomorrow !"

"Sure," he said, "where do you want Mr Booboo ?"

Carrie cringed. Her childhood bear was precious to her, but every time Shane said its name, he managed to make it sound as if he were making fun of her. _Booboo, Booboo, Booboo_. She glared at him.

"Mr _Booboo_," she snapped, " can go over there on the shelf. Which is where you'll end up, if you don't learn some respect !"

"Oh, don't get crabby, it's only a bear !" he snorted, putting the toy down on the shelf where she'd said. "Anyway, if you're sorted, I need to get going. I start work in half an hour."

"Come by tomorrow, huh ?" she said, not really bothered if he did or not, if she was being honest. He'd been getting on her nerves lately, though she suspected her discontent was not all his fault. But she'd changed her job, and her home, and was still unsatisfied. _There has to be more than this_, she thought grumpily as she accepted a disinterested kiss from Shane and watched him close the door behind him. She looked round at her new home. She was five floors up and had a good view over the city, bathed gold in the setting sun's light. She was on the outskirts here, and less than two miles away the city gave way to the forests and lakes again. She liked hiking, and looked forward to heading up into the trees on balmy summer days, or brisk winter ones.

_Home sweet home,_ she grinned to herself as she dug out her kettle and set it to boil for a mug of coffee long overdue.

* * *

Marcus pulled at his gates, rusted shut for fifty years. To his surprise, he'd managed to get round the curse by sleeping for some of that time, thanks to the residues of another, older curse not meant for him. But that had turned out to have its disadvantages, such as progress and not only of the weeds and rust. Somehow, some_when_, the city below him had grown. He wondered how that had managed to escape his notice.

"Bugger," he scowled, blistering his fingers on the rusty, cold iron. The gates refused to budge. Well, that wouldn't do. He assessed his boots, stolen a few years before he'd fallen asleep from a fellow German soldier whose plane had come down, blasted out of the sky by a Dutch gunner. They were sturdy. Good for kicking with. He kicked.

"Bugger !" he swore again, louder this time. The gates stayed put.

"Maybe if you oil the hinges ?" a voice whispered. He flung his arm out, hoping to connect with something, but he touched nothing but thin air. A ghostly laugh answered that.

"Perhaps one day you'll get bored with hanging around here, Peteka," he said mildly.

"I see you've woken up," Peteka said, "I came to see if you'd learned your lesson yet. From your disgusting language, I would guess not."

"And what lesson was that ?"

But there was no answer. Marcus scrutinised the bushes for any sign of the ghostly wizard, but there was nothing. No sound except for the wind. He went back inside for some oil to douse the hinges with. When he came back out, it had begun to snow, something he saw immediately it was only doing within the walls, whilst outside Spring still sprang, mild and sunny. He ground his teeth. For him, then, summer was not on its way after all.

* * *

Carrie stared in disbelief at what her friend was showing her. The images on the mobile phone flickered and blurred, but there was no mistake – it was definitely Shane. With another girl. _Kissing_ her !

"He's a bastard, Caz," said Tarla gently, "you deserve better."

Carrie didn't answer. She was speechless with fury and hurt. So what that he bugged the hell out of her these past three months ? So what that she'd discovered she didn't miss him when he wasn't there ? How _dare_ he be the one to….._argh !_ She unclenched her fists with an effort and gathered her wits.

"He's so dumped," she hissed through her teeth, "just wait til I get my hands on him, the cheating sod ! And who the bloody hell is _she _?"

"Umm….Andrea, I think, from his pottery class ?"

"Yeah, figures," Carrie said sourly, "I _knew_ he only did that course so he could flirt ! Of course he denied it, lying bastard !" She stared again at the phone's display. Andrea was tall, Nordic, beautiful. Not to mention a bitch. _Bloody bitch !_

"To hell with men," said Carrie. "I think I'm going to go out and get drunk. Coming ?"

* * *

Marcus prowled the corridors of his house, looking for the place he'd last left Peteka's bones, years ago when he'd first come here and discovered the house occupied by enemies. He swore as he went, remembering that fateful evening. He ought to have known that killing a wizard wouldn't get rid of the pesky bugger. It certainly hadn't undone the curse, which was what he'd been banking on when he'd flashed his knife out and cut Peteka's throat. Typical that one of the people he'd murdered had turned out to know the old magic. Now Peteka seemed to think it funny to hang around and haunt him. _Time to banish. Just need a witch…no, no, no, don't go there, they're as bad as wizards ! What a mess._

He stopped, his nose inches from the barrel of a pistol.

"You can't do that," he said.

"Yes, I can," said Peteka, materialising behind the gun, "I can do any damn thing I want, unlike you ! And you can get any notions of banishings out of your head, Marcus – I ain't going anywhere."

"Poof !" said Marcus, making a shooing gesture. Peteka laughed.

"It'll take more than that," he said, "Oh, just so you know – there's a curse on my bones. Anyone who touches them dies horribly."

Marcus grimaced. "It might be better than having you haunt me for the rest of time," he said, "But just in case you're telling the truth, I'll lay off. No bone hunting for me."

"I believe you, millions wouldn't," snorted Peteka. The gun dropped to the floor as he disappeared, and Marcus bent to retrieve it and tucked it into his pocket. _Gotta get outta here ! If it kills me ! I've had enough !_

He decided to go and try the gates again.

* * *

Carrie stared up at the tall iron gates, and the house that was all but concealed behind them by ivy and oak. It looked as run-down as a house could possible look, but why it should have been left like this, she couldn't imagine. _Who'd let a massive place like this go to rack and ruin ? _

Trying to shift the gates resulted in nothing but bruised hands, but shinning up the ivy-cloaked stone walls was no problem for a nimble girl, which she was. She landed the other side in a tangle of weeds and a molehill, and brushed herself down. _Right. Now what ? Inside, or out ?_

Inside won, but mostly because it had started to snow. _Now that's odd, it shouldn't be snowing this time of year !_ She stared at it, puzzled, as it settled on her outstretched hands.

"It's not real."

She stared at her hands, then at the speaker. He stood in the doorway, one hand wrapped around an ancient can of engine oil, the other stuffed in the pocket of his army greatcoat. He raised an eyebrow at her. "How did you get in ? The gates don't work."

"Sorry, am I trespassing ?" she asked, puzzled. _Who on earth would live here ? The place is a ruin, practically_. "I climbed over the wall," she added. He rolled his eyes and came down the steps towards her. He looked not quite forty, with dark hair grown long and unruly, and sardonic brown eyes. His mouth was wide, firm – a mouth that had been used to laughter, judging from the lines playing about the corners. He looked down at her.

"You're trespassing," he said, "but I don't mind. But it might not be good for you. So you go, ja ?"

"No," she said firmly. That startled them both. _No ? What the….!_ "Are you going to oil the gates ?"

"I don't think it will make any difference, but yes," he said, "perhaps you can leave that way then. Come and see."

"You seem awfully eager to get rid of me," she said, "I mean, I totally understand, it's your house and all that, but…."

"It's not me you need to worry about," he said grimly as the oil can flew out of his hand and dashed itself against a tree. "Fine," he muttered, "have it _your_ way !"

_Oh great, a lunatic,_ Carrie thought, _maybe he's right, I'd better go_. "Not to worry, I'll get over the wall again," she said cheerfully, and set her hand upon a protruding stone to pull herself up. Immediately she found herself flung backwards onto ground turning icy with snow. Fear began to creep into her heart as she looked at the strange man. He stared back, his mouth open in shock. Then he swore.

"You bloody bastard !" he thundered at the air. "Let her _leave _!" He stood, as if waiting for an answer, then swore again and stamped back into the house, leaving her on her back in the snow.

She tried the wall again, and again, and again, but each time she was flung back. Finally she sat in the melting snow and sobbed. The lunatic came out again.

"You'd better come in," he sighed, "sorry about this. I'll explain in a…" he shut up suddenly, his words muffled, and she looked round to find him with his hand clamped firmly over his mouth, his eyes wide with fury. She opened her mouth to ask him what the hell was going on, but he shook his head at her. He extended his other hand to her instead, and froze. So did she, staring at the awful mess that had once been a hand. He jerked it back.

"Well, come in or stay there, it's all the same to me !" he barked, but she followed him in anyway, despite his sudden temper.

She didn't have any choice, it seemed.

* * *

"I'm Marcus," said Marcus, once he'd regained his temper and established some warmth and comfort in the kitchen, surprised that Peteka didn't object. Though why Peteka wanted her to stay was a mystery to him. He'd been only too eager to try and help the others escape when Marcus and his cronies had come calling. There was a rusty dark stain on the wall above the girl's head. Marcus' trigger finger twitched. That had been his doing. He felt sick.

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. "Carrie," she said by way of introduction. "What happened to your hand ?"

He pondered telling her, and decided it would probably only get him into trouble.

"Engineering accident," he said finally, "I got burned."

"Ah."

_Go on, try it._

"Yes, it's a funny story, actually, I was working on this plane, in the war, and …faah..".it was no use. His tongue twisted itself into impossible shapes and his lips wouldn't work. He couldn't even slip the truth into a lie. No pulling the wool over Peteka's eyes. He slammed his fist on the table. "I _won't_ tell her, then !" he shouted. Carrie flinched.

"It's best if you don't ask questions," he said. "I can't tell you, as you see."

"And I can't leave, either ?" she asked miserably. He saw the tears welling in her eyes.

"If it's any consolation, I won't hurt you," he said. And in his head, he heard Peteka's voice, mocking. _I believe you. Millions wouldn't._


	2. Chapter 2

"Did you sleep alright ?" Marcus asked Carrie the next morning when she came into the kitchen. She'd wrapped herself in an old house-coat he'd fished out of a chest in the attic for her and she looked terrible. She shook her head.

"The mattress was lumpy," she muttered, pulling up a chair to the table. Marcus slammed a jug of hot coffee down in front of her and followed it up with a pan of eggs.

"This place is ancient, what do you expect ?" he demanded. "I put you in the best room."

"That's as may be," she said archly, "I still didn't sleep well. And my door kept blowing open."

"So did mine," he said. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I wonder why ?"

Carrie poured a mug of coffee and wrapped her hands round it, glad of the heat. "Well if _you_ don't know, _I_ sure don't."

"I'll ask Peteka," muttered Marcus. He took a gulp of his own coffee and set to on the eggs, hoping she wouldn't ask the question. He was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to answer.

"Who's Peteka ? No, don't tell me – he's your invisible friend, isn't he ?" Her tone was derisive, her lips twisted into a sneer. Marcus resisted the urge to shake her.

"I don't want you here any more than you want to be here," he said brusquely. "So you can wipe that look off your face !"

"If you don't want me here then why can't I leave ?"

"I don't think I can tell you. Not that I know, exactly." He risked a look at her. She didn't look as angry as she sounded, only frightened. He felt awful. "Do you like books ?"

"Yes," she said, startled by the sudden change of subject, "why ?"

"There is a library here. Maybe you can amuse yourself there while I try and find out what's going on."

Having deposited her in the library, Marcus went off to speak to Peteka. The wizard let him wander around the house for twenty minutes before growing bored with the game and finally showing himself.

"She can't leave until I say," he said insolently.

"I gathered. Why ?"

"Because I say."

"Tell me why, or curse or no curse, I will burn your bones," threatened Marcus through his teeth. Peteka laughed.

"Yeah, yeah, of course you will ! That's up to you. Either way, I'm not telling you."

Marcus stared at him for a moment, then, fast as lightning, bolted. Peteka squawked and flung himself in front of the door, stopping Marcus in his tracks.

"Okay, okay ! I'll tell you. She's here to break the curse, to teach you your lesson you were meant to have learned but haven't."

Marcus drew a deep breath. "I see. But you realise that if anyone finds out she's here, I'll be doing time for kidnapping ?"

"That's the least of your crimes, and anyway they won't find out," said Peteka smugly. "No-one can get in or out unless I say, remember ?"

"Yes, or I'd have left years ago," sighed Marcus. "Very well. But no more tricks with the doors - and sort that mattress out ! I'll have her here happy or not at all…._bones_, Peteka, remember !"

"Deal," sniffed Peteka loftily, and drifted off, leaving Marcus scowling at the door. He returned to Carrie, and found her curled up in an armchair in the library, reading his journal. He hadn't expected that. Perhaps, with Peteka's attention distracted, he'd forgotten about the journal ? As if on cue, the book flew up out of her hands and aimed itself at his head. He ducked.

"Hey, I was reading that !" she protested. Several pages scattered themselves about the place and Marcus stooped to gather them up again.

"How much did you read ?" he asked, putting the book back together. She shrugged.

"I skipped most of it," she admitted, "there wasn't much there, all the entries were the same ! Boring. Who wrote it ?"

"Me."

Carrie snorted. "Sure, you did. You started it in 1944 and you're still here. Ha. Ha. Ha."

"You'll notice the writing's the same all the way through ?" he pointed out, trying to wrench the book open. It remained firmly shut, like a clam. He flung it aside, irritated. "Well, hopefully you'll have noticed," he said, "anyway I sorted out the doors and the mattress. But you still can't leave."

"Can I at least call my parents ?"

"Try."

She tried. No signal. It didn't surprise him. From the look on her face, it hadn't surprised her, either. She stuffed the phone back into her pocket with a sigh.

"Tea ?" he offered, brightly. She flung him a hostile look. "Yes ? No ? I'll bring it anyway." Anything to get out of her company. It was awkward, having her here, against her will. Against _his_ will. He'd spent so long alone, he didn't know how to talk to anyone, especially if they happened to be a girl. And a girl who really didn't want to be in his company to boot. A girl he'd have killed, in the war. He hated Peteka.

"Got no cause to hate _me_," said Peteka in his ear, making him jump. He set the kettle of boiling water back on the range and gritted his teeth. "_You're_ the one what got yourself in this situation."

"Bugger off !"

"Now, now. That's exactly the attitude that got you here in the first place. Anyway are you going to make that tea, or just stand around playing with hot water ? Not good for someone who got burned."

"Bones, Peteka."

"Hmm, yeeees, empty threats again. Never worked on me – remember ?"

Marcus poured the hot water into the teapot and slammed the lid on. He remembered alright. He wondered how far he was going to be pushed. Peteka lifted two dainty cups off the dresser and set them on the tray next to the teapot.

"I'm not drinking tea with her," said Marcus. The milk jug stopped in mid air, on its way to the tray.

"Why not ?" asked Peteka, sounding a little offended. "Don't you like her ?" The milk jug continued on its journey, slowly, reluctantly. It landed in the sugar bowl and quickly righted itself. Marcus rolled his eyes.

"I don't think she likes _me_," he said, "she called me a lunatic. And look at me ! This is _your_ fuc –"

"Language, Marcus," warned Peteka, appearing as a shadowy form by the window. He looked upset. "I didn't do that to you, you did it to yourself. If you hadn't been such a coward and acted sooner…"

"I don't need reminding, thank you !" shouted Marcus. _No, what I need is to forget ! But I can't._ He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the shelf and rammed that onto the tray as well, and picked it up. "_You_ could carry this," he snapped, realising it was heavy. Too awkward for a hand that wouldn't work properly. "If you want to help, that is." He set the tray back down again, a little shakily. His wrist ached and he rubbed it, scowling. The tray wafted into the air and floated off toward the library, and Marcus followed, fuming, and not looking forward to the next half hour at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Carrie looked up as a tray drifted through the door and set itself on a small table nearby. It was followed by Marcus, looking sulky and rubbing absent-mindedly at his damaged hand. She wondered who the vodka was for, and decided she was entitled to it nonetheless.

"The _tea's_ for you," he objected as she poured herself a generous measure of the spirit. She shrugged.

"Am I a prisoner here, or a guest ?"

"Guest, at least in my opinion," he answered. She swigged the vodka and poured another.

"Then I can have what I like, can't I ?" she said with a hiccup. He took the bottle away before she could have a third drink and set it out of her reach behind him on the shelf. She tried to reach round him but he held her out of the way and pushed her back into the chair.

"No," he said firmly.

"_No _?"

"No ! I will not let you get drunk. Tea ?"

"Screw you !"

"Fine ! Please yourself. But no more vodka." He knocked back a full cup of it himself though, much to her annoyance. She didn't like men who drank. She stared at him insolently. He'd combed his hair that morning, or at least done something to it, for it didn't look as messy as it had. There was still a lot of it, thick brown locks that framed his face and hid the scarring along his jaw. A muscle twitched in his cheek and his eyes narrowed, deepening the crease underneath them. He'd set his mouth in a hard line and she found herself wondering what it would take to get a smile out of him. He looked down his nose at his hands, lying carelessly on his lap, and thrust the mangled one out of sight in his pocket.

"You could get plastic surgery for that," she said. He blinked.

"What ?"

"Yeah – here, let me see." She held her hand out for his, but he refused.

"I've had enough mockery from you," he growled, "let it be."

"But…."

"I said let it be !" He tried to get up, but an invisible force pushed him back and pinned him in his chair.

"I don't have to talk to her," he said to the empty air. "I'll sit here all you want, but you can't make me talk !"

"Who are you talking to ?" Carrie asked him curiously. "This Peteka again ?" His brows snapped together but she didn't think the frown was for her. Her teacup refilled itself. "Is he a poltergeist ? I thought they just threw things around."

"I wouldn't call him that, exactly," Marcus muttered, his eyes flicking round the room as if looking for something.

Carrie sipped her tea. The name Peteka sounded foreign. More foreign than Dutch, at any rate. She looked him over again, trying to work out who he was. He looked back, his eyes dark and unreadable in his pale face. Still no smile. "Do you think I could go out into the garden ?" she asked, "I would rather not be cooped up inside." _With you._

He glanced out of the window. "It's stopped snowing," he said, "I don't see why not."

She set her cup aside and rose and stretched. "Okay then," she smiled, "I'll…er…go and…..thanks for the tea." She ran out of the room before he could change his mind, barely stopping to grab her coat.

Marcus waited until he heard the front door slam, then took the vodka down from the shelf, intending to take it to his bedroom in case of emergency. He felt sure that he was in for some rough nights at Peteka's hands, and some rough days at Carrie's.

"Bones !" he shouted at the walls, "bones, bones, bones !"

"I wouldn't," warned Peteka from the shadows. Marcus started up the stairs to the second floor, and to the east wing where his room was. He'd given her a room in the west wing, as far away from him as possible. He stopped, and took a few steps back. The door to the room next to his stood open, and he stared in horror at the interior. Clean sheets had been put on the bed, an old iron bedstead of Victorian styling, and the window was open to air the room. Pot-pourri in a silver bowl gave the air a delicate, feminine scent, and a crystal carafe and glass stood on the bedside table.

"No, no, no," said Marcus, appalled, "what are you _doing _?!"

"You can get to know her better this way," said Peteka, tweaking a corner of the bedspread where it was a little rumpled. It was pink. Marcus decided not to ask where it had come from. He folded his arms over his chest and blew a harsh breath out through his nose.

"This is not on."

"_This_ is your one chance to learn your lesson and break the curse," explained Peteka in an infuriatingly reasonable tone of voice, "I don't know what you're making such a fuss about."

"The invasion of my privacy, and my right to remain cursed if I so choose," retorted Marcus. He pushed open the door of his own room and slammed it in the ghost's face. Peteka came in anyway, unperturbed.

"I think she'll surprise you," he said. "She's pretty, she's intelligent – what's not to like ?"

Marcus rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. It was true. Carrie _was_ pretty in a woodsy sort of way, though she was vastly different from the women he'd once known, with their perfectionist attitude towards their dress and appearance, and their reluctance to do anything "unladylike", which included most things. _Like climbing over walls and knocking back vodka like a Russian. But I like that about her, actually. Are there other men who like that about her ?_ He realised he knew nothing about her. He pursed his lips. Perhaps he should remedy that. But that would mean Peteka being right. Not on. He peered out of the window and saw her, sitting on a low branch of a huge oak and swinging her legs. Her long fair hair fanned about her shoulders, clad in a dark grey coat of dubious fabric. It looked as if it had been made from a parachute. No, she was nothing like the women he'd known. Nothing like the one he….._I want to forget. _

"See ? Pretty," said Peteka in his ear. Marcus hunched his shoulders.

"I see, yes."

"Well ?"

"Well, what ?"

"Are you going to make an effort ?"

"Get out." He waited, but there was no retort, no laughter. Peteka had presumably gone, much to his relief. He looked out of the window again and found Carrie gone from the tree, and from his sight. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes.

It had begun to snow again.


	4. Chapter 4

Marcus paced the halls that night, unable to sleep, mostly because Peteka wouldn't let him. The wizard seemed determined that Marcus get up from his nice warm bed, enter Carrie's room, and….talk to her. Why he had to do that in the middle of the night, he had no idea.

"She's _asleep_," he hissed, his hands clamped around the doorframe as Peteka tried to force him over the threshold. He shifted his damaged hand, and Peteka took the opportunity to give him an almighty shove. He skittered into the room swearing. Carrie woke up, saw him, and screamed. He fled.

"See ?" he demanded, "_see ??_ She doesn't want me near her ! Now lay off !"

"She'll come round," said Peteka with a shrug. Marcus could see him, lounging against a door jamb with a grin on his face. Somehow he suspected he'd just been deliberately humiliated.

"Bones !"

"Oh, not that again ! You're not going to do it, so why do you keep threatening me with it ?"

"You know she's not going to like me, so why keep trying to make her ?" countered Marcus. Peteka sniffed.

"She might, if you changed your attitude. For a German, you're quite likeable."

"I didn't make my career out of being likeable."

"Suit yourself. But it'll be much nicer round here if you two got on."

"It would be much nicer round here if you let her go and left _me_ alone !" fumed Marcus.

"Not going to happen !" sang Peteka. His sing-song voice annoyed Marcus immensely. He threw back his head and screamed.

* * *

Carrie sat bolt upright in bed at the unholy shriek coming from the next room. _Omygodomygodomygod. He really is insane ! I have to get out of here !_

She shifted silently out of bed and went to the window to try to get it open. Maybe if she could sneak out….but the latch wouldn't budge. It was stuck fast. Maybe it had never been made to open. She tried her door. That too was stuck. No way out unless the lunatic's poltergeist said so, then.

She hammered on the door with her fists.

"Let me out !!"

The door swung inward, and she came face to face with Marcus, who looked angrier than she'd ever seen anyone look. There was that muscle in his cheek again, twitching. She'd already learned what that meant.

"Let me out," she repeated, refusing to be intimidated.

He stood aside. "Come on then. Leave, let's see you leave ! Bloody hell, we're both trapped here !"

That surprised her.

"Why can't _you_ leave ?"

"Because Peteka won't let me."

"This is the ghost, right ?"

"Correct."

She huffed at him. "That's…odd. I never heard of a ghost preventing people leaving before. Usually they want them gone."

"Not this one."

_Talkative, isn't he,_ she thought sourly. _It's like trying to get blood from a stone._ She elbowed past him and started down the stairs towards the front door.

"You should get dressed first," Marcus called down the stairs after her. She paused. _No, if you're going, just go._ She tried the door, and it opened easily enough. It was snowing hard. She shivered. _Well, maybe I should get my coat and shoes_……the door slammed again, wrenched out of her hand by Peteka. She sighed.

"Told you," said Marcus. She looked round for something to throw at him. He came down the stairs and went into the kitchen. She followed, having nowhere else better to be, except back in her own apartment in town which clearly wasn't happening any time soon.

"Why does he want me here ?" she asked Marcus as he set the kettle to boil on the stove. He shrugged.

"I have no idea."

"Haven't you asked him ?"

"He didn't give me an answer I understood. Believe me, this isn't exactly fun for me either."

She eyed a cookie jar on the shelf. "Anything in that ?"

He handed it down to her silently, and she was pleased to discover that not only was it full, but it had several kinds of cookie in it. She picked a stem ginger one, her favourite. "Mmmm," she said with her mouth full, "delicious. Did you make these ?"

"Yes."

"Cool. I guess you don't have much else to do, huh ?"

Marcus fixed her with a glare. "This place needs constant work," he said, "baking is just a change. For Goodness' sake, I would have thought that stuffing cookies in your mouth would shut you up for a minute or two !" _Now that,_ he thought, surprised, _was rude. What's got into me ? _He slammed the cupboard door and nearly cracked the cups he placed on the table, suddenly furious with himself. "Sorry," he said, "I'm….just tired." _I'm not nice_. She was sitting there with wide eyes, a large chunk of cookie still in her mouth though she wasn't chewing, just staring at him with one cheek puffed out. At his apology, she recommenced chewing and swallowed.

"'S'okay," she said, "it can't be nice for you, having me here. I mean _me_, of all people !"

"Don't be like that," he said, stung by her sarcasm. "I haven't had company for…..well, too long. I forget how to behave."

"If you ever knew," she said rudely. _Don't answer that,_ he told himself, taking a sip of tea. He looked at her. She was infuriating, and he wondered whether or not he liked her. Not that it mattered, since she didn't like him. She stared back. He began to feel self conscious. Then he remembered the burn scars on his jaw.

"Like what you see ?" he snapped. She blinked.

"What ?"

"The burns !"

"I wasn't - I – to tell you the truth, I didn't notice, actually. But now you've brought it up…."

"It's a long story," he sighed, misunderstanding. "And you should know by now that I can't tell you."

"That's not what I meant." She poured herself more tea, "I meant that now you've mentioned it, I can't help staring. But it's not as bad as you think, you know."

His eyebrow arched. "No ?"

"No. Really."

Marcus looked down at the table. _No-one's seen me for years, maybe she's right, it's not as bad as I think._ There was no mockery or laughter in her eyes, only puzzlement. As if she couldn't work out what his problem was. He placed his forefinger against the scars and traced them gently, feeling the puckered, rough skin that marred his face. It didn't feel so bad after all. Perhaps the years had healed it enough so that he didn't look monstrous any more.

"But I can see it's worse than it looks," she continued, "I mean, it obviously prevents your face from moving."

"Pardon ?"

"Yeah – I mean, you've never once smiled, it must be hard not being able to smile because your face doesn't move."

He thumped his fist on the table, making the crockery rattle. "That isn't why !" he shouted, "there's nothing about you that makes me want to smile !" He flung his chair back, the legs scraping loudly across the terracotta tiles, and stamped out, thoroughly annoyed. It didn't take long for Peteka to catch up with him.

"Every time I think you're making progress, you go and ruin it," he said.

"You call that progress ? She started it."

"Now that's petulant, and you know it," said Peteka. Marcus pushed open the library door. The light that fell on the wooden floor was dull, grey. A quick glance out of the window showed him the snow was piling up outside. He bit his lip.

"I spoke the truth," he said quietly, "she makes me want to strangle her. Peteka, please, for her own good. Let her leave."

* * *

Carrie wandered the house, bored to tears. It was snowing so hard outside that there was no chance of exploring the gardens, not that she'd call it a garden, more a wilderness. Though Marcus claimed to work constantly on the house, it was obvious he'd left the gardens to go to rack and ruin. At least the house, old and rambling, was interesting enough for the time being. Most of the rooms were cluttered up with things – old books, piles of letters, old and ragged photographs, and what seemed an unreasonable amount of junk. Most of it seemed to be various engine parts, though what from, she didn't know, having never taken an interest in engineering. There was an old tobacco tine full of old coins, including several Reichsmarks. She picked through those, looking for the dates and laying them out in date order. There were Dutch coins too, and a couple of Finnish ones. Did they belong to Marcus ? Who had he been ? She discarded the coins and took a different box down from a shelf, finding a chess set inside along with a spider and a lot of dust. She put the spider out of the window and blew the dust off the yellowed ivory board. Maybe he played. It had to be better than poking through junk. She went to find him.

"Marcus ?" He looked up. Carrie stood there in the doorway to the library, holding a chess set. He recognised it as one his victims had been using when he knocked down their door. One set of ivory pieces, one set of ebony. He hoped she put the dark stains on it down to damp and mould. He knew better.

"Do you play ?" she asked hopefully. He paused, wondering if he ought to throw her out. Peteka pinched his ear.

"Yes," he said, flinching "but I warn you, I play well."

"So do I," she said impishly, and brought in the chess. He cleared a space for it on the table and she pulled up a chair from a corner and sat opposite him.

"I call white," she said. He turned the board so the black pieces faced him.

"You move first," he invited, knowing that her move would tell him what kind of player she was. She shrugged, and moved. He grimaced. This would be one tough game.

It continued in silence, for both players were in deadly earnest, determined to win. But finally, Marcus sat back with a grin on his face.

"Checkmate," he announced, and his grin grew wider at the look on her face.

"Well, at least you know how to smile," she grumped. He wiped the grin off his mouth and held out his hand. She shook it.

"Good game, though," he said graciously, "fancy a rematch ?"

"Maybe," she hedged, "I think I'd like some tea first though. Losing to you is hard work."

He frowned. "I'll ignore that," he said, and she laughed.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that ! Lighten up, Marcus. Oh – the sun's out ! I'm going for a walk."

"But what about tea ?" he objected as she rose. She shrugged.

"Later," she said, "I need to get out of here for a bit. You know, you could come too if you like."

He declined, for the simple reason that he didn't feel like getting up. His mood was rapidly descending into blackness again and being left alone would allow him to indulge. He felt Peteka's breath on the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders irritably. "Sod off," he muttered. Carrie gave him a startled look. "Not you !" he snapped. She sighed and slammed the door.

"There you go again," said Peteka, materialising in the chair Carrie'd vacated. "And it was going so well !"

"It won't go well when she finds out what I have done," growled Marcus. "I wish you'd just let me go."

No answer came back to him, however, and he was left to his thoughts. The worst thing was, his thoughts always came back to one thing.

_Janneke_.


	5. Chapter 5

_Holland, January 1943_

_"Achtung ! Achtung !" The command rang through the streets, amplified by the megaphone the officer was using to make his voice carry as far as possible. The rumble of the cars and Gestapo motorcycles added to the din, almost but not quite drowning the orders for the residents of the houses to tumble out into the street and present themselves. Snow drifts, dirty and half-melted, piled up against the buildings and made it difficult for the pedestrians to navigate. Marcus sat his cycle like a warlord on a charger, his head held high despite the sights that met his eyes, for up ahead of them the killing had already started and they passed the still-bleeding corpses of Jewish refugees and their Dutch protectors. The smell of burning rubber and blood filled his nostrils and he tightened his hands on the handlebars, feeling faint. The wheels of his bike narrowly missed running into a fallen woman and he hauled on the revs, churning up the bloodied snow and spattering his coat with dirty pink slush. Those they didn't gun down were rounded up and herded off in the trucks they'd brought in for the purpose. Marcus didn't know their destination. Not exactly. But he could guess their fate._

_Then they came to the last house, set apart from the others by nearly half a mile, on the outskirts. The engines fell silent, the machine guns stopped. Marcus dismounted and silently ordered three soldiers to come with him, with the dogs. Tall iron gates loomed above him, padlocked against intruders. He ordered several more men to take up stations surrounding the walls, then shot the lock off with his pistol. Silence. They walked up the path in silence, boots crunching the crisp snow, all too aware that if anyone inside had guns, they'd be picked off with no way of seeing where the shot came from._ Maybe there's no-one here._ He shook his head. That was unlikely; this would be a prime hiding place._

_He was right. He had been about to give up several times and record the house as empty, none here but the two men slumped over their game of chess where he'd shot them, but something spurred him on, something kept him looking. And finally he found them._

November 2006

Carrie leafed through the letters she'd found in a damp cardboard box in one room. There were photographs in there too, of a pretty young woman, dark haired, neatly dressed. Some showed various people in the garden of the house, in better days with the lawn neatly trimmed and blossom on the trees. She riffled through more letters and photos hoping to find something about her strange host, but there was nothing. The only thing that seemed out of place was a patch with torn and ragged fragments of coat on it. SS. She pocketed it.

The further she explored into the house, the stranger it seemed to her. None of the memorabilia belonged to Marcus it seemed; none of the letters were addressed to him, none of the pictures were of him. And every time she attempted to get into the back end of the garden, overgrown and mysterious, she found herself driven back, or marched round in circles to the front of the house. She resolved to ask him what was back there, and did so at teatime.

"A couple of old sheds," he replied, watching her carefully. She took another slice of toast from the rack and slathered butter over it.

"So why can't I go there ?"

He shrugged. She rolled her eyes.

"Oh come on, I know you know !"

"And I can't tell you anymore than that," he said with a note of finality. She dug her heels in.

"Try !"

"I can't !" he shouted. "There is nothing there that would interest you. So don't go there again !"

Carrie chewed her toast savagely, glaring at him. _Insufferable, obstinate….!_ She decided to try a different tactic.

"So tell me about the house then," she invited, carefully wiping all traces from annoyance from her face. He seemed to relax, letting his breath out in one loud puff and ironing the frown from his forehead.

"I don't know much," he said. "It's old."

"That much I can tell for myself," she said acidly. He curled his lip at her. She took the SS insignia badge from her pocket and laid it on the table beside his teacup. He flinched.

"You know about this, though," she said, trying to keep her breathing steady, her heart beat regular. Marcus slowly reached out and picked it up, curling it into his palm like a delicate flower. Then he clenched his fist and threw the patch at her as he rose.

"You," he seethed, " are trouble ! By God, if I don't find a way for you to leave….." he left the threat hanging as he slammed out of the kitchen, and she heard his rapid footsteps echo through the corridors of the house as he made his way upstairs. _Slam_. Another door. She wondered which one. She picked the badge up again, straightening it out where he'd creased it.

_SS. Nazi._

_Damned and evil._

_Must get out of here._


	6. Chapter 6

Marcus bolted the attic door behind him, fearful of Carrie's pursuit, then pulled out the old chest from the back. It had lain under a pile of rubble since he'd been trapped in the house, but it contained what he wanted - the only things in the house that were his, apart from the engine parts and the journal.

_Gun. Grenade. Uniform. Papers. And Janneke's locket_. He'd no right to that but he'd taken it anyway, the only thing he could save. _How had she got here, though ?_ It hurt him that he'd never know. It hurt him that she'd chosen the other side. It had seemed a kick in the teeth, at the time. Now, of course, he understood. He'd had years to understand. He pulled out the photograph, cracked and torn, of him and the young woman he'd loved. No sign of bitterness on the faces of either. He pushed it into his pocket, then pulled up the false bottom of the trunk.

"I warned you, don't do it," said Peteka. Marcus' hand froze as he reached inside. He hesitated, then picked up a fingerbone. He snapped it. Peteka shrieked.

"That's for your interference," said Marcus. Peteka hovered in front of him, holding up a shadowy hand. It was missing half a finger, the one Marcus had broken. His face registered disbelief.

"I'm trying to help you !" he protested, "this is how you repay me ?"

"I don't want your help !"

"You'd rather go to Hell ? I know that's not true."

Marcus reached for another finger bone. "Let her go, or I'll take you apart piece by piece," he threatened. Peteka grew agitated and scornful.

"The same way you took apart the lives of hundreds of others ?" he jeered, "oh, how you sleep at night I'll never know !"

_Snap._ "I sleep just fine. Let her go."

"You didn't let Janneke go."

Marcus held up his burned hand. "And you think I don't suffer for that ? I have never regretted anything so much, but this…this….revenge of yours, it doesn't work like that, I don't see the point ! You let me go, let _her_ go, either way, stop interfering !"

"No."

_Snap !_

"I can't ! Don't you see ? Somehow it all has to be repaid, set right ! For my sake too ! I made an _oath_ !" The ghost was becoming agitated, and hopped up and down on the spot. There were dark, slick stains on his coat, a river of bright blood. The wound in his throat was horrific. Marcus forced himself to look. He forced himself not to flinch. _You signed up for this._

_1943_

_There they were, finally, huddled in fear in the shed. Marcus gave the order to open fire and watched as a spray of machine gun pellets tore through the men, women and children who'd tried to evade the German troops. A can of engine oil caught fire and soon the flames were licking at the clothing of the fallen, of the ones still alive, too sick with fear to move. He put up the soldier's gun._

_"Halt !" he said. "Let the rest burn, no use wasting ammunition." He turned away. Then he heard her, a soft voice that whispered his name and barely heard over the crackling of the flames as they climbed higher. "Marcus."_

_He knew that voice. He would know it anywhere. He turned back in shock, his eyes widening in horror as he saw her, at the back, her neat blue coat on fire, her hair sizzling. Janneke. No !_

_"You devil," snarled the prisoner, a Finnish spy they'd caught hiding in a cupboard in the hallway. The man's camera hung around the neck of one of Marcus' men. Evidence of crimes they'd committed, though of course under orders. I'm just doing my job, thought Marcus, trying desperately to crush the rising panic. He knocked the man to the ground with the butt of his pistol, ignoring the cruel laughter of his comrades as a few drops of blood spattered onto the snow. Behind him, the flames rose high, warming his back. Still on his knees, the Finn began a tirade in his own language that later Marcus would come to know was a curse. He drew his knife across the man's throat and pushed him down into the snow._

"You would change it all, wouldn't you," said Peteka sadly. Marcus tried to school his features into neutrality, but he knew his misery showed all to plain on his face. He bowed his head and put the photograph back in its hideaway with a heavy sigh.

"I would," he said. He watched the wizard fade from sight, and sat alone, hugging his knees to his chest as the sunlight outside died and gave way to darkness.

* * *

Since there was no sign of Marcus, Carrie decided to get her own meal at teatime and set about rooting through the kitchen for something suitable. For a prisoner, he was remarkably well-stocked, but she didn't bother to wonder about it since there seemed little point in asking him anything. Either the questions annoyed him, or he'd find himself unable to answer. He appeared the second she poured her tea. She rolled her eyes.

"As if by magic," she grimaced, "sometimes I think men can hear food being prepared ten miles away. Grab a cup."

"I see you're making yourself at home," he said with a hint of displeasure. He nonetheless found a cup and filled it, seating himself opposite her at the old oak table, bleached from years of scrubbings. He took a pastry from the plate between them and ate it silently. It was an uncomfortable silence, and Carrie longed to break it. But he kept his head bowed, refusing to look at her, his knuckles white as his good hand gripped his mug. The other hand was out of sight, under the table.

The silence between them stretched taut, and she began to fidget, growing nervous. His head snapped up and he scowled.

"Can't you sit still for five minutes ?"

"Can't you be nice for five minutes ?"

"I'm not given to _nice_," he snarled, "it's not _my_ fault you're here !"

_Actually, it is,_ Carrie thought, and sneered at him over the rim of her mug. He stared back, his eyes bleak.

"What ?" she demanded defensively, "just because you're a miserable old sod with no friends doesn't mean you need to behave like one."

Surprise, then outrage, flickered across his face, before being replaced by a reluctant smirk.

"Well, I've never been called _that_ before !"

"What - miserable ? Unlikely."

"_Old_."

So he does have a sense of humour, she thought, fighting to keep the grin off her face. His smile widened, and she couldn't help herself. There were shallow creases at the corners of his brown eyes, and deeper ones near his mouth. _He looks almost….dare I say it…..likeable. _

_But there's that badge. SS._

_Maybe it wasn't his. Just maybe…._

"Care to let me win this time ? At chess, I mean," she offered. His smile faded. He hesitated, staring into his mug with unfathomable eyes. It seemed a shadow had fallen upon him again. Then he looked up.

"You're on," he said, "but why don't we play for money ? I'm feeling competitive."

"I don't have any !" she protested, "but I agree, we should play for something. How about…..if you don't win, you answer three questions."

Again, the black looks.

"No."

"Oh, come on. Unless you're afraid you'll lose ?"

"I won't lose, but you're being underhand."

_And you're not ?_ _Not that "underhand" is the word I'd use, more like "criminal"._

"Fine," she said, "_one_ question ?"

He held out his hand to shake hers. She took it. He nodded. "Done," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

Marcus frowned at the chess pieces, and the sticky situation his were in. A look at Carrie's face confirmed his suspicions and blackened his mood to boot.

"Hmmm….look at that," she smirked, "now I'm no expert but that looks to me like a stalemate."

"You could be right," he said levelly, "which isn't the same as winning, or losing. Rematch, I think ?"

"Oh, no, you're not getting out of it ! You didn't win, so you owe me an answer !"

"I didn't lose either," he pointed out. She shrugged as if to say _not my problem, mate. _His nostrils flared.

"That wasn't the deal," she said, ignoring him, "I specifically said, _if you don't win._ And you haven't won. So, pay up !"

"What do you want to know, nuisance ?"

She giggled. The corners of his mouth twitched. He found it hard to remain annoyed with her.

"Is this house yours ?" she asked. Marcus' eyes flew wide.

"_What ?"_

"I said…"

"Yes, it's mine," he said quickly. She relaxed. But he couldn't understand. Why ask that ? It was obvious the house belonged to him. _She's up to something_.

"Was it always yours ?" she asked then. He shook his head.

"You said one question," he reminded her, "and I've answered it. By all means, stake the next one on a rematch."

But that didn't seem to be her plan. Instead, she stretched, yawning loudly, and rose.

"Nah, I'm tired," she said, declining his invitation, "I think I'll turn in. Good night, Marcus."

_Good night. Fat chance._ As soon as she'd gone, Peteka, predictably, turned up, as Marcus had anticipated.

"Well done," he said, "you're remembering how to be human again. I'm proud of you." For some reason, this compliment was delivered in a decidedly sarcastic tone of voice, upsetting Marcus. He ground his teeth and replied in the same manner.

"Why, thank you, that means so much to me."

Peteka dropped a small pile of things into his lap. "She knows about you, so why don't you drop the tough guy act and let her get close ?"

"What do you….where did she get this from ?" Marcus held up Janneke's silver locket. Inside it was his SS insignia badge, a little scrunched up in order to fit. And the photograph. Peteka shrugged.

"I let her find them," he said, "just goes to show, you should not break my bones – not that I didn't warn you, I'm sure you remember the little conversation we had ?"

"Yes, I remember," said Marcus, dazed. "If she knows, then why…surely she should hate me ?"

"Then," said Peteka, "you won't do it again will you ? And no, I think she actually likes you. Despicable bastard though you are."

The insult cut deeper than any had ever done before. Marcus felt a little sick, knowing that the description was an accurate one. Somehow, in all the years they'd spent together, he'd managed to ignore the fact that they were enemies. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat, and blinked away the sudden tears. _How did I come to this ?_

"I…don't know what I'm supposed to do about it, Peteka," he said wearily, "I really don't."

No answer.

_Doesn't surprise me. Every time I open up, every time I ask him for his help, he's gone._

_Hell. I don't deserve help._

Carrie leaned pensively on her windowsill, looking out into the garden. A full moon shone on the light dusting of frost, the snow having gone. All looked pure and peaceful, a garden trapped in time. _With me inside._

She traced her forefinger through the thick dust on the windowsill, an intricate and random pattern of swirls and spirals. Nothing like the rigid patterns Marcus wore – had worn – on his coat. Why did he tear the badges off ? She sneezed, her finger having stirred up too much dust, and left the windowsill. The house was just as quiet as the garden. No sound of a radio, or conversation. She wondered what Marcus was doing, if he spent evenings with his ghostly companion. And what about the girl ? Carrie pulled open the top drawer of her bedside table and took out the tin she'd hidden Marcus' things in, only to find it empty. _Now what the_……

"_Marcus !"_ she shouted, yanking open the door and running down the stairs to the library. He didn't seem surprised to see her again, merely gave her a weary sigh. "Where are …er…..your things ?"

"_My_ things ? Back where you took them from," he said sternly. She folded her arms and glared at him.

"You have no right to go through my room."

"It's not your room," he replied, his expression hardening, "it's mine. Technically. You're just staying there until I work out how to get rid of you."

"And would it kill you to give me some privacy ?"

A corner of his mouth twitched, threatening a smile, until he levelled his face into neutrality.

"I might say the same thing to you," he said, "or perhaps you're going to claim those things turned up in your room by accident ?"

Carrie plunked herself down in the chair opposite him. "Well since I'm up, you may as well tell me. You were SS, weren't you ? Who was the girl ?"

Marcus growled low in his throat. "You're not going to let it drop are you ?"

"Nope."

"The girl was called Janneke," he said, "she was my fiancée."

That surprised her. She hadn't expected him to have ever been in love, nor anyone to love him in return. She cocked her head on one side and regarded him speculatively. He folded his hands on his stomach, the burned one underneath the good one. She pointed to it. "So what happened there ?"

"Plane accident."

"Oh, really ? Come on Marcus. The truth."

He shook his head, stubborn, unwilling to tell her. A cold breath blew down the back of her neck and she shivered.

"Marcus, I doubt this Peteka could stop you telling me now, after all, I've found your SS badge and the photograph. Or maybe that's not what he's afraid for me to know," she added slyly. He leaned forward and poked the fire into life with the iron. His shoulders were hunched, a self-protective gesture she didn't understand from him. She didn't like being shut out, however, and pressed him once more for his story.

"Very well," he said, "I doubt it's a tale you'll like, however. But since you asked, who am I to refuse ?" The last was delivered with a sardonic smile. Carrie nodded. She was prepared for the worst, knowing that any story involving an SS man with a burned hand and a poltergeist was not going to be a pleasant one. She shifted around in her chair to get comfortable, and looked expectantly at Marcus, waiting for him to begin.

The story he told her was one of hatred and sadness, and she almost wished she hadn't forced him to tell it. He told it without sentiment, without tears, his eyes hard and glittering. When he'd finished, he sat in silence staring down at his hands which lay in his lap. Carrie shifted uncomfortably in her chair and immediately attracted his attention.

"I suppose now you hate me more than ever," he growled. She shook her head. She was sure she ought to hate him, but couldn't quite seem to.

"But why didn't you just leave ?" she asked, struggling to understand what had kept him going in the SS. It was clear, from his story, that he'd taken no pleasure in the brutality he'd been under orders to commit. But surely he could have left……

"Only one way out of the SS," he said, "and I wasn't willing to give my life for others. Now, I might. I was hardly worth saving, was I ?"

"Why are you asking me ? I'm no judge."

"It was a rhetorical question, Carrie."

She hunched one shoulder, a gesture that said she'd understood that. _I don't judge him. Those who live in glass houses….._

"But you haven't told me everything," she said. "Where does Peteka come into it ?"

Marcus looked about him, as if he expected to see the ghost in the room with them. "He was there too, the last man I killed. I cut his throat because he said that….Janneke…. had been deliberately working to betray me. Now I know she was right to do that but at the time………and he cursed me, seconds before he died. I didn't take him seriously of course, but then when it was time to leave, I couldn't."

He raised his head. "So you see; I am a murdering bastard. What do you think of that ?"

"Not much," she said, "I knew as soon as I saw the badge that you were…..well, never mind. I can't judge you."

"Peteka did," said Marcus, "which is why I'm here." He rose with a sigh. "So, now you know."

Carrie watched him leave, closing the door carefully behind him. She had no idea what to think of his story, or him. Was he sorry ? She thought so. She couldn't imagine the weight of regrets he must carry on his shoulders. _No more than me, perhaps._

A quick glance out of the window told her that the weather had brightened, the clouds parting to show pale blue skies. She went to get her coat, and stepped out into the garden. Beneath her feet the snow crunched, but here and there were small patches where the ice had receded. There was a rosebush under her window, merrily sporting new leaves of rich green.


	8. Chapter 8

Marcus opened his journal. The last entry, made in November 1987, read simply: _Cold outside. Cold inside. How much longer ?_

He picked up a pen, filled it with ink, and began a new page.

_For three days, I have had a visitor, an uninvited guest. Peteka seems to think she will be good for me and though I doubted him, today I do not feel that way. She knows my story, and it seems to have had little bearing on how she sees me. I feel….relieved. _

He put the pen down to let the ink dry, and rubbed his forehead wearily. He did feel relieved, though at the same time strangely apprehensive. A shaft of sunlight fell across the page and he went to the window.

_It's been a long time since I saw the sun._

He looked down in sudden surprise, and flung open the casement. Beneath him, roses bloomed. Red ones, like drops of dark blood among the snow. He slammed the window shut.

"Your conscience astounds me," said Peteka from the desk. Marcus snatched up the journal and shoved it into his belt.

"I wasn't aware you could read my mind," he said, though he'd long suspected that Peteka could do just that.

"I don't need to," said the ghost, "your face says it all. It's fun being human, isn't it ?"

"Would it help you if I said I was profoundly sorry for what I did ?"

"I'm dead, Marcus – you saw to that, remember ? There's not a lot that will help me. But you…..it's you we're all here for."

"What's that supposed to mean ?" Marcus shivered as the scent of roses drifted up to him on a soft breeze. He looked round, and wasn't surprised to find the window open again. He left it open.

When he turned back, he was alone again.

That night, he took all the remains of his former life, and burned them in the range oven. Carrie watched him, curious, puzzled.

"It's time to let go," he said, in answer to a question she hadn't asked.

"I wish I could," she sighed. He looked round at her.

"You ? What have you to let go of ?"

She came to join him, crouched on the floor in front of the oven. "We're not so different," she said. "Except for the curse and the poltergeist, that is. I don't have those."

"But you do have guilt ? Over what ?" He seriously doubted it could match his own. _Stop it_, warned a distant voice in his head, and he shook it out ruefully.

"You wouldn't understand," she mumbled, "what you did, you did out of duty, and love of your country. I don't have any such excuse." She left him. He took the last thing in his pile, held it in his hands for a moment of remembrance, and then fed it into the flames. He watched Janneke's face burn, as he had sixty years ago in the sheds. He let out a sigh, heavy and poignant, then slammed the oven door shut on his past.

He dragged the gates open the next morning, having had a feeling that he'd be able to do so. The day was bright, warm, and the track that led onto the main road into the town had sprouted with green overnight, a green that came right up to his walls, laying siege to the winter within. He picked a rose, ignoring the thorns, and shut the gates again.

"See, I thought you'd be out of here like the proverbial bullet," said Peteka. Marcus held out the rose.

"It's not time to leave, and maybe I don't want to ?"

"That's not what you said before."

"It's what I'm saying now. Out of my way." Marcus walked through the ghost with a smirk, and carried on up to the house. _My house_.

"But now that the gate's open, _she_ can leave !" he called back over his shoulder. Peteka snorted.

"You haven't changed at all !"

_Oh, I have_, thought Marcus grimly as he went to find Carrie. He found her still a-bed, sleeping soundly though sunlight streamed through her windows.

"Time to get up," he said, shaking her gently. She glared at him.

"Go away. I was having an awesome dream, and you've ruined it."

"Story of my life," he said, "but now that you're awake, you can get up. I opened the gates. You can go."

She sat up, staring at him blearily. "What ?"

"You heard. The gates open, you can go. Come on, what's keeping you ?"

"You are. I can't get dressed with you here."

Marcus backed up. "I'll wait downstairs," he said.

Carrie found him outside the open gates, clearly waiting for her to leave. She was a little offended at his eagerness, and said so. He shrugged.

"I don't want to keep you here against your will," he said.

"Or yours, clearly," she retorted.

He shrugged again, a nonchalant gesture that cut her.

"Nice knowing you, then," she sniffed, taking a step towards the gates. He took hold of them, ready to shut them as soon as possible.

"I know you don't like me, but you could be a little less obvious about it !" she shouted. Marcus grabbed a handful of her hood and yanked her back in. She suddenly found herself crushed against him, the thick wool of his coat scratchy against her cheek. She grasped his collar and shoved at him, fury blazing in her eyes. She marched back inside, tears blurring her eyes. _How dare he just throw me out ! How dare he think he can just play with me like that !_

"It's only because he's afraid," said a shadowy figure lurking just inside the doorway. She jumped and squeaked. The shadow detached itself from the wall and came to stand in front of her, insubstantial and featureless. She put out a hand, watched it go through the figure.

"Peteka ?" Marcus stopped in the doorway, his face full of sadness. "Leave us."

Carrie looked at him through the ghost as it faded, and he looked back.

"Why didn't you go ?"

"Why do you want me to ?"

"To tell you the truth," he sighed, "I don't. But that was a decision _you_ had to make, not me, not Peteka." He walked past her down the hall into the kitchen, but she did not follow. Outside, the roses choked the house, blooming with wild abandon. Marcus came back, a large iron key in his damaged hand. He held out the other hand. "Come with me."

She hesitated. "Where ?"

"You'll see when we get there. Come on."

"How do I know you're not going to kill me and bury me…"

"Oh, for Christ's sake ! I promised I wouldn't hurt you ! Now come on !"

His tone, angry and familiar, stirred her. She placed her hand in his and let him lead.

The key fit a lock in an old wooden door, half-strangled with ivy, and the door opened reluctantly onto a small kitchen garden, tall walls enclosing it and providing shelter from the elements to the currant bushes and herbs that would once have grown there. There was nothing but weeds there now. And a peculiar rockery right in the middle. Marcus stopped in front of it and turned to look at Carrie.

"When I told you my story, it didn't seem to affect you as much as it should," he said, "did you think it's all just a dream ? Look here – evidence of my crime. I could dig them up, I suppose, but that's going a bit far."

"I thought they burned," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. He shook his head.

"Three did not. Three were murdered before we got to the sheds. So here they are, unmarked, unnamed. How do you feel about me now ?"

"Is Peteka there too ?"

"No," said Marcus, frowning, "he's in the attic, underneath the things you took from my chest."

She shuddered. "Marcus, what's done is done. You can't change it. That doesn't mean you're not a massive criminal, but who am I to judge ? I don't care what you did. I only see the kind of man you _are_."

She flung a rose onto the grave and he let out his breath, unaware 'til that point that he'd been holding it. He had no clue to what she might mean and he didn't like to ask, fearful of the answer.

"I've got my own demons, Marcus," she said quietly. "Three years ago I was involved in an accident that killed a dear friend of mine. I escaped justice, pretty much – I got a hefty fine and community service, but my brother took the rap and did the time. I let him. So you see, I cannot judge you for cowardice."

If she'd looked up before she walked away, she'd have seen the light of hope in his eyes. He watched her leave the walled garden, powerless to follow for his feet would not move, and he sat down on the mound of earth and wept.

She was gone by the time he pulled himself together enough to make his way back to the house, and Peteka was nowhere to be found, though he called and called. Frustrated, he went to the library to fetch his journal, and found it open on the desk. He read the note she'd left, then went to make tea, numb inside.

"So she's gone – what now ?!" he demanded, slamming the teapot on the table with a loud thud. Unsatisfied, he picked up a mug and flung it at the wall. Fury seethed up inside him and he snatched his pistol from a drawer and shot the living hell out of the sideboard, shattering crockery and filling the wood full of holes. Once the bullets were gone, he followed them up with the gun itself, shattering the last of the plates. He stood amongst the shattered china and howled. Nothing answered him, not even an echo in the dull, heavy silence. Cold crept in as night fell, and he made no move, slumped in a chair, to light the range again.

"Where the hell have you been ?" exclaimed Shane, when Carrie showed up at his flat. "We've had a missing person's thing out for you, searching everywhere, we were !"

_Yeah, right. _

"Whose are these ?" she picked up a pair of lacy underwear, holding the barely-there scrap of fabric between forefinger and thumb as if it would bite. He shrugged.

"Well, you know, babe, with you gone and all, I thought you'd left me."

"I've been gone four days, Shane, and I've got no messages on my phone. Are these Angela's ?"

"Andrea," he corrected absent-mindedly. She smirked, then slapped him.

"You pig !" she shrieked as he recoiled, shocked. He put his hand to his cheek and glared at her. "You've been doing her since before I went _missing_, as you said – not that four days is _missing,_ Shane ! You are _dumped_ !"

"Fine by me, babe," he sneered back, "she was a better lay than you anyway, you frigid cow."

She clenched her fists, and calmed herself with an effort. To punch him would have been extremely satisfying, but beneath her. She decided not to lower herself to his level. She wondered what Marcus would have done – would do.

"That's not what the man I've been with said," she said evenly, watching his face carefully. To her delight, he looked hurt. _Serves him right_. "In fact, I think he enjoyed my company. And since he's capable of intelligent conversation and a decent game of chess, I'm not too bothered about you and Andrea. Though really, if that tart keeps leaving her underwear at your place she'll be all out."

She slammed the door.

_Men are such pigs !_

_Well, not all men. I know one who isn't. But he should be the biggest pig of all. And I'm about to go back there and blow down his house of straw._ She laughed to herself at the fairytale analogy. _I don't feel very wolf-like_.


	9. Chapter 9

Marcus looked up from his book as Carrie came in through the door two days later, a large hold-all over her shoulder and a sheepish expression on her face.

"So you came back," he said, snapping the book shut. He didn't seem surprised to see her. She nodded.

"Apparently, I've been reported as missing," she said, and she couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice. She dumped the bag on the floor with a thud. "And I dumped him."

Tears welled in her eyes. Blinking at them only sent them trickling down her cheeks.

"Can you believe, he was cheating on me ?" She sniffed and bit her lip hard to stop the tears. She found herself encircled by Marcus' arms. She clung to him.

"He's not worth your tears," he said softly, but that only opened the floodgates.

And Marcus tightened his arms around her.

"You're welcome to stay here," he said later, as they sat in the warm kitchen with a tray of cakes and a pot of coffee between them. "But I thought you couldn't wait to leave. Haven't you got family, friends….?"

"No."

"You must have," he persisted. She shrugged.

"Can I stay here, or not ?"

"I've just said so," he retorted.

"Well then, what's the problem ?"

"There's no damn problem !" he snapped, "not on my part, at least. I don't understand why you're being so stubborn about telling me of your family. I don't believe you don't have any."

"Well what about you ? You must have family too, maybe none that you'd know, but descendents…?"

"No."

"How do you know ?"

"No family !"

"Now who's being stubborn ?"

"If you're coming back to stay, you can leave that attitude at the door," he snarled. She took a cake and stuffed it defiantly into her mouth, holding his gaze. His eyes flashed angrily and he moved the cakes out of the way.

"And you can damn well learn some manners !"

"I seem to recall you're short on them yourself !" she snapped, as soon as she'd swallowed the cake. She took a gulp of coffee to wash the crumbs down. "I can always go away again."

That alarmed him. "No," he said. "Look, if we're going to live here together then we should get to know each other. Properly. I asked about your family because I ….I want to know you're….I don't want any visitors. I may have no secrets from you anymore but I still have secrets from the world, and the world doesn't touch me here."

"You're being a coward again," she accused him, "I thought there was more to you than that."

He sat back, defeated. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, unable to stop the lightness from entering his heart at her gentle acceptance of him. He scraped back his chair.

"A little at a time, Carrie," he said, pausing next to her and looking down at her upturned face. He reached out and pushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, out of the way. She turned her face slightly, and he let his finger trail down her soft cheek. She didn't flinch, and he squeezed her shoulder.

"I'm going to read," he said, "I'll be in the library."

He wasn't reading when she went in, a little over an hour later. He'd let the sun set without turning on the lights, so she lit the lamps, blinking in the sudden brightness. He stirred restlessly but said nothing, though she could see a weary sadness in his eyes. She went to sit by him on the arm of his chair and reached for his hand. He swallowed hard at her touch.

"I haven't seen Peteka since you left," he said quietly. "I think if I leave here…." He left his sentence hanging, but she understood.

"How long do you think you'd have ?"

"I've no idea, truly," he said. He drew a deep, shaky breath. "Peteka has always been sketchy on the details, and now he's not speaking to me. Maybe a few days, or maybe the rest of my life. Did he suspend me in time, or prolong my life ?Who knows ? We shall see."

"We shall ?"

"Carrie, I've been a prisoner here for sixty years ! Whether it kills me or not, I am going outside."

She slid off the chair arm and into his lap, knocking the breath from him.

"Will we still live here ?"

"I don't see why not," he said, wrapping his arms round her.

"Then you can start by visiting the DIY store. This place needs updating – badly !"

He laughed, a sudden sound of joy that was abruptly cut off by the kiss she gave him. When she released him, breathless and a little in shock, he put her quite firmly on her feet and rose.

"I'll leave that in your capable hands," he said, wandering out into the hallway to fetch his coat. He shrugged it on, grinning at the look of puzzlement on her face.

"You're not going _now _? It'll be shut !" she protested. His grin grew wider, then faded. He looked down at his hands, spread wide before him. One would work, the other was inadequate, a silent reminder of who he'd once been.

"There's a small, ancient shrine in the woods," he said gravely, "it's time I gave Peteka a proper burial. Besides us, there'll be nothing but memories here. Good ones."

Carrie followed him out as he strode purposely towards the open gates, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. She matched it, leaving behind the guilt she'd felt for three years. It didn't seem such a heavy burden anymore, here with the one man who would never judge her for it. There'd be a time to tell him all of it, but not just yet. There were other things that had to be built on first.

_Good memories indeed._

_Mine, too._

_Ours_.

She looked up into the treetops as the wind rose, sighing through the leaves with the warm breath of summer on it.

Then she took Marcus' hand, and stepped out into the road.

THE END.


End file.
